Measuring Lies In Regret
by Nisei
Summary: Of all the children who grew up in Tilnanogue, only one boy has no keepsake from his parents to call his own. Companion piece to 'To the Winds, Sing'.


Disclaimer : The rights to FE and all related matters do not belong to me Tra la la (Wouldn't want to get into that argument with Tirnanog. That _was _nasty, wasn't it?)

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**Measuring Lies In Regret **

It's almost like the usual Grandbell make, he decided, but with certain contraries of lightness and weight that sometimes caused him to stumble down in the middle of a practice run. There was not the expected weight behind the swing that he thought there would be, and there was certainly a weight as he swept it sideways in defense where there was not supposed to be. In true battle he knew this would be disastrous in all the theories and all the sparring matches, but he'd seen it happen. It was not graceful, but it was hard to expect grace out of hammered metal made to drink blood and steal lives, and he'd seen the sheer efficacy of that blade. Not so clean nor efficient nor inspiring as the others who trained themselves to the way of the blade like Holyn or Ayra or hell, even Deu in his strange sword dance of death and life, no. The master of the blade was gruff, grizzled, hard to approach. So all he'd seen was from the vantage point of a child, tagging along with Lord Sigurd and Oyfaye, his militant motherhen. Even as his own fourteenth birthday rolled around, he supposed Oyfaye would never stop being a worry wart.

"So you've grown a moustache," the younger man would remark, a slight disapproval in his voice.

And Oyfaye would snort back in reply. "Well,_excuse _me for not wearing long hair like women."

He would have to do some creative manuevers then to get ahold of his practical dignity, sidestepping the flagstones and a quick swing of the sword in an attempt to hack that moustache down. And Oyfaye being the ever-present babysitter would just step sideways for that fraction of an inch it would take to evade the blow, shaking his head in the exasperation of a mother with seven shouting kids. They would laugh, and that continued their childish games that they played with nobody else. No one would know the exact angle it would take to evade him except Oyfaye, and Oyfaye certainly didn't know the exact angle to evade any other Isaacian swords. Plus he was supposed to be a prince, and ousted princes of dead kingdoms were not suppose to enjoy the tiny twitches of jokes life sometimes threw at them.

Celice had been particularly indignant in that regard.

"We are," he stated one summer day, one hand on his hips and the other point toward the eastern horizon. "Going to the arena in Ganeishire."

The other, more sensible and more mature prince (although he knew certain Jungby ladies who would argue that point to the death) did a threatical slap on the forehead, expression halfway between wanting to laugh himself to hysterics and wanting to beat some sense into the boy.

Then Lakche gave him a quizzical look. "Why? Can't I? Johan and Johalvier promised me they'd find a seat that won't be seen."

"Going with those two, you _will_ be seen no matter where you sit. And if I'm supposed to think you _won't _try to enter the competition, then you grossly underestimated adults, young lady." The summer sun was hot on its trail to evening rest, and he had to wipe off sweat before continuing. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure if the sun was why he was sweating. "And if you'd expected me to let you go the arena knowing that---"

"There won't be any trouble," Celice said, chin held high in stubborn argument. Oyfaye said he knew that face. From what little he'd seen, the prince wasn't disinclined to agree. "I'm going to watch out for Lakche, there won't be any trouble." Just like a mantra.

He sighed. "I'm less worried about the trouble from Grandbell than the trouble you're bound to stir up yourself."

"_Why?"_

Shannan usually lost his patience around that point in the arguments, but Oyfaye would keep up his calm with remarkable effort and proceed to recite the statistics of each incident, counting off on his fingers to prove the point. And when he'd ran out of fingers, the man usually resorted to counting the heads (as well as twapping them with one of his ever-present strategy books) and conclude with the usual scholarly flair that no, going to Ganeishire was more trouble than it's worth, sorry to burst your bubble. The children usually made a fuss about it, complained of stringy adults and stupid rules and Who Cares About Trouble If It's Fun.

They were too young to realize they were not playing games, and both he and Oyfaye did the best they could to keep them that way. The time for realization would come soon enough.

The swords and staves and bows though, they gave to the children. They'd sent the broken healing staff to one of the hedge wizards in the area, and it came back worse for wear but working. Lady Edean had grieved on this, blamed herself for trying to save as many as possible and in the end saving no one but herself, clutching her husband's bow like it was made out of gold. In retrospect, it probably was. Aunt Ayra's sword was fiercely contested for between the twins, leading to pranks and into arguments and into the two not being on speaking terms with each other, until Delmud miraculously stepped in and started to deliver the most inspiring piece of vocal art the babysitters had ever seen coming out of the mouth of a six years old.

Skasaher promptly conceded the point and handed the sword over to Lakche, who also promptly proceeded to abuse it with natural aptitude until Shannan had to clamp his hands down on her shoulders and told her : "A good swordmaster starts with the basics."

She'd gone back to normal swords afterwards, much to his relief. Skasaher had attempted to try the heavy silver his father carried around to impress his mother once, but like father like son, he failed miserably. The boy was nothing if not persistent, though, and in time he did manage to learn how to make it respond to his will. Never as well as Lakche with her catlike grace, but you don't really expect grace out of something made for the kill. As long as it does its job just fine, it could be as simple as a boulder rolling down the mountainside or as poetic as a falling piano.

It was a few months into the practice run that he realized the amazingly charismatic Delmud (he'd always been a shy boy, hovering around Celice's back and never saying a single damned word) was troubled by something. And so he asked.

He didn't expected the answer he got. Three questions, maybe four, and he had not the slightest idea how to answer them. Where was his father. Where was his mother. What happened to them and why didn't anyone say anything?

Shannan kind of guessed the lack of hereditary weapons was bound to be trouble. But there was a last and only letter from the boy's father, written in a hurried scrawl on a scrap of paper, and his last request in marginalia had been to burn it, say nothing and burn everything and find some other ways to answer questions. It's over. The prince is alive but it's over, the note said, thank you for taking care of my son. If Lachesis gets there, she'll take care of everything. If she doesn't, burn this and say nothing and please find some other ways to answer the questions. He could never find the remnants of Lenster's intelligence network again, so any answers he might have gotten from the older man---was he really not that much older than them?---was practically moot.

So he did found some other ways.

After much discussion with Lady Edean and Oyfaye, Shannan walked over to the rack where the sword hung in silence, watching for years the quarrels of children too young to realize the weight of blood drunken deep into the metallic hearts of their mementos.

The prince unlatched it from its mooring, gave it an experimental swing. "This sword is for you."

He could see Delmud's eyes widened. "My father's? But why---"

Why didn't you tell me before, he could hear the silence say. There were times later when he wished he could answer the silence, but a younger Shannan was never known to be wise. It was the weight of mistakes that gives a man his wisdom, and when he was twenty he still hadn't made enough of them no matter how severe his other mistakes were. Costed his father's life, almost costed his aunt's and definitely costed the lives of most people he'd cared about, the day he learned what really happened in Barhara. He'd cursed himself sick with regret until Lady Edean arrived with her tired smile and crippled leg and said No, it wasn't your fault.

So he didn't answer, not to the silence. To the query. He figured a yes or no answer would work just fine, not going against the father's wish and not lying outright.

Shannan shook his head. "No, not your father's."

He could see the boy lowering his head in half-disappointment, half a daring hope that he would elaborate on the sentence, that he would say Your father is alive but he can't come to you right now so you'll just to wait and be a good boy, and you are, aren't you?

The prince didn't have the cruelty for either the option of silence or the option of sweet lies, so he didn't. "It belonged to a good friend of your uncle. Remember the King Eltoshan? The famous Lion of Agustria?"

Delmud nodded gloomily. "He was very valiant."

"And he died all the same. I know. I was there." And I made my utterly stupid mistake there that caused all of you to be suffering this instead of nuzzling your parents by the fireplace on winter nights, but he didn't say it.

The prince continued then, promptly ignoring the fact that Delmud---a fellow prince, now that he thought about it---was staring at him with bulging eyes. Like he didn't know that disillusioning fatalism wasn't supposed to be said to children. "The owner's name was Beowulf, a free knight we met in Anphony. Remember that tale? Good. He's a mercernary who knows King Eltoshan and also a good friend of your mother."

Then Delmud lowered his head again, half in contemplation and in silent unasked question that he might as well have screamed at the top of his lungs, plainfaced in the afternoon sun as he was.

"No, he's not your father."

He fell back, draped in disappointment but still holding on to that other piece of hope.

Shannan was quick to dash it. "As for that one, we've had no clues on his whereabouts since Barhara. He might've been dead, he might've been alive. I wasn't there, and Lady Edean didn't see everyone." He carefully left out the part that they didn't know because the boy's father wasn't there, either, but the rest was true enough. The swordmaster wasn't quite so cruel enough as to lie on the same subject matter twice in a day. He had hoped it would be enough, and that the boy wouldn't start asking the questions of who and why, because it wouldn't be as easy that way.

The boy still didn't lift his head. He was staring at the floor or through it, dirty blonde Isaacian ponytail falling over his neck like a noose, and Shannan quickly bashed away that imagery. The silence had its own unasked questions, hanging heavy with a jumble of thoughts and feelings. And it was very obvious once he knew where to look.

"I don't think it's because he doesn't love you, Delmud."

Shannan could hear the boy---the other prince---grinding his teeth, hands balling into fists. "Then why?"

"He might've been dead. In that case, he can't come for you, can he?"

It wasn't a lie, no. He wasn't cruel enough to lie twice on the same day, but its effect was the same anyway. The gasp of surprise, of stifled tears and the choking of breath.

"It's something to think about, isn't it?" And in saying his cruel words, Shannan knew Delmud had taken them as cruel truth in order to avoid the other, more cruel belief. It was a simple matter, the mind wanting to accept what it wanted, and in this case he knew---and prepared his words so that truths and lies were on the same side of the coin---that Delmud wanted to believe his father didn't come because he couldn't rather than the only other fatalistic option in the boy's mind, that he didn't come because he didn't care. A dead hero was better than a living bastard, Shannan figured, and it should be what the boy needed. He felt the pangs of regret this way, cursed himself for not being wise enough to think up another option. Exchanging one sweet lie with another, making the boy believe in order to move along on false confidence. Dash the boy's hopes just like that, so he would no longer rely on bedtime happy endings and instead come to live with it like the others did. The others who didn't have a choice, who didn't have scrawled letters telling them to keep things under wraps.

Delmud nodded then, lifting his chin up. His eyes were filled with the slight tint of disillusion, but also the tired resignation that told Shannan the lie was now effectively factual. "And the sword?"

"Before I answer your question, do you know why we gave the others their parents' weapons?"

Head shaking in reply. Good. "Because it's a symbolism. You know what that is, I've seen you used it in your speech. It's to tell them," a breath, a pause, a fact, one at the time, "it's to tell them that someone is watching over them. And always with them."

The boy's eyes shot up sharply, taking in account his face and the way he stood and the way the sword gleamed in the sunlight. "And?"

"And since we can't give you anything of your parents...I figured that a family friend might be the next best thing."

In the training ground ludicrously lit by the afternoon sun, Delmud turned his head sideways, as if saying it would have to do. It would do. And perhaps a thank you, Shannan hadn't been sure about the boy's response system since the day he gave his inspirational oration. Then, an inquisitive stare.

So, he'd grinned and handed Delmud the blade, carefully as if handling a precious and fragile thing. The boy took it and gave it a few experimental waves.

"It feels strange," he finally complained.

"It's not the usual style. I think it's the special make used by Conote knights, not many other people were trained with this thing. And before you ask, I don't know how to use it properly, either."

Delmud looked uncertain. "Can I?"

Shannan smiled and patted the boy on the shoulder. "How about we find out?"

The boy was six when he was told to live his lies. It was young enough to believe it as fact and to practice himself into a certain style, a style no one else knew but the dying breed of Conote free knights. He never asked who and he never asked what he was like, instead using his time to hone his swordmanship to a fine art form, with all the grace of an Isaacian master for the awkward blade. Shannan was twenty when he went back to living his.

_Fini._

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_Note, again : I actually had a rather cheerful, Patty-mayhem finale planned for this. No idea on how we ended up this way, either. Oh well._

_And since I don't-repeat don't-like Shannan all that much to be honest, apologies if this went OOC. I DID try to keep things in order as much as I can, but the keyboard always get the better of me every single damned time. Always. Sigh._


End file.
